Friday, February 1, 2013

Vacation.The best of times.The worst of times.My parents had decided that our family needed to visit Montana.And, more specifically, the Ghost Town of Virginia City in Montana.It sounded . . . Old Western.To those of us from the ranch, that translated to mean – exotic.We led a small life, I admit it.I don't remember much about the 'getting there'.I was four.It was long.And sleepy.Suddenly, I was stumbling along wooden slats with my Mom.

Then being carried by said Mom.We were in an old fashioned, western town with boardwalks and hitching posts. There were even a couple of watering troughs.But no horses. I noticed that straight off.We went into the museum.I should explain, here, that there are two different kinds of museums.The slick, professional, institutional showcase of fact.And the humble, heart-felt, community tribute to history or 'collection of stuff out of Gramma's wash shed'.(Because my husby is an historian, we've seen many, many examples of each kind.)Moving on . . .Virginia City's museum was the warm, homespun type.Long glass-topped tables filled with . . . curiosities. Those little, wondrous items which fill the local citizen's heart with awe and amazement.But really don't have a global impact.I stared obligingly at antiquated pieces of equipment and tools. Signs and billboards of past eras. Household paraphernalia. Oh, and the preserved bodies of two-headed lambs and calves and kittens.While my family wandered around, I stood nose to nose with one or another of these amazing specimens.While they exclaimed about 'memories' I pointed out numbers of eyes and ears.It was a fascinating visit.But it ended all too soon.And suddenly we were back outside on the boardwalk.We moved to the next building, a drug store.It certainly didn't look like the one in Milk River.But I was willing to give it a shot.I followed Mom inside and wandered up the first aisle.Stuff.Boring.Maybe if Mom picked me up again . . . things always looked more interesting when she carried me.I help up my arms.She obliged.I was right. It was a bit better from up here.We wandered through the store.At the back, against the wall stood a large, wooden cabinet.With one door.Which was closed.I stared at it as we grew closer.It seemed . . . mysterious.Okay, I admit, I didn't know what the word mysterious meant.But the mere mention of the word sounded . . . mysterious.Mom stopped beside the cabinet, which had the only closed door in the entire place.I stared hard at that door. What secrets did it hide?Candy? Toys? Maybe another two-headed kitten?I looked at Mom. “Open it, Mom! Open it!”“Well I don't think I should,” she said uncertainly, glancing over at the proprietor.He merely smiled and nodded.“Open it, Mom! Please?!”“Well, It's probably storage or something.”“Open it! Open it!”“Well, I guess it's all right.” Another glance at the proprietor.“Open it! Open it!”Her hand reached out and grasped the knob.I held my breath. What were we going to see?Something magical?Something wildly exciting?Something . . .The door swung back with an appropriately spooky 'screech'.Hanging quietly within was a skeleton.

Human.“Ai-Yi-Yi-Yi-Yi! Close it! Close it! Close it!” I hid my face in Mom's shoulder.Mom must have swung it shut.I didn't see.And I missed quite a bit of the rest of the Ghost Town of Virginia City, glued as I was to her shoulder.But that was all right.I had already seen the ghost . . .

Thursday, January 31, 2013

The Stringam Ranch sits in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River.

In the driest part of Southern Alberta.

The driest.

Now, I know that residents from Medicine Hat will try to argue the point but don't listen to them.

After all, they come from a place named 'Medicine Hat'.

Enough said.

Most of the land around the ranch is used as pasture.

Nothing else will grow there.

But the acres immediately beside the river, the 'hay flats', have much more potential.

They can be irrigated.

I'm sure you've seen the giant wheel-move irrigation systems capable of watering an entire quarter-section of land in one pivot. Enormous constructions that transport themselves in a wide arc from an end point and effectively bring the gift of life to whole crops at once.

All at the push of a button.

It's fascinating.

It's wondrous.

It wasn't what we Stringams had.

Our system was . . . erm . . . modest.

And connected, disconnected and moved by hand.

Twice a day.

Our favorite chore.

Not.

Morning and evening, the pump would be silenced. The 16 foot lengths of aluminum pipe disconnected and drained one-by-one. And then moved to the next position 40 feet away and reconnected.

It was Dad, Jerry and George's job, mainly.

But I helped.

Once.

And therein lies a tale.

So to speak.

Early one summer evening, because Dad and Jerry were busy doing other things, Dad asked me to go and help George move pipe.

I stared at him.

Me? Do you know what you're asking?

Dad turned away, so I shrugged and followed my brother into the lower hay flat.

He shut off the pump.

I watched.

He walked over to the line.

I followed.

He unhooked the first pipe.

Again I watched.

He unhooked the second pipe.

He was really good at this.

He unhooked the third pipe.

I noticed that my light-blue pants looked white in the fading light.

He unhooked the fourth pipe.

We were having a beautiful sunset. Wonderful shades of red and orange against the clear blue of the sky.

He unhooked the fifth pipe.

I stopped looking at the sky and noticed a gopher nearby. Cheeky little guy was just sitting there. Watching us.

He unhooked the sixth pipe.

I chased the gopher into its burrow.

He unhooked the seventh pipe.

I tripped over the sixth pipe on my way back.

He unhooked the eighth pipe.

"George, is this going to take much longer? I'm tired."

He unhooked the ninth pipe.

And beat me with it.

He didn't, really, but I'm sure he wanted to.

By the time 'we' were done moving pipe and had the pump going again, one of us was sweating profusely.

Monday, January 28, 2013

Dad would drive us to amazing places and show us amazing things, and sing and entertain us on the way.

And he took breaks.

'Breaks' which, for my Dad, meant pulling into a gas station and buying everyone a bottle of pop and a chocolate bar.

Notice, I didn't say 'healthy'. I just said 'fun'.

And sugar highs hadn't been invented yet.

To Dad, holidays were always taken across the border. He drove us all over the western half of the continental United States, with stops in California, Texas, Oregon, Montana, Wyoming, the Dakotas, Washington, Idaho, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico.

We have pictures taken beside the 'Welcome to . . .' signs for all of them.

Travelling also meant meals on the road.

There were a lot of family-owned restaurants in the United States. And Denny's.

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .